


always prefer the longshots

by ladywithalamp



Series: ramblin' man [1]
Category: Longmire (TV)
Genre: Bisexual Male Character, Branch Connally Has Feelings, Branch Connally Just Wants Affection, M/M, Pining, Rare Pairings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:34:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27997596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladywithalamp/pseuds/ladywithalamp
Summary: There was only so much that can be done when you had feelings for someone you shouldn't. But Branch Connally had to learn that the hard way after years of suffering with it, and he didn't really know what would happen, but he hoped to Christ it wouldn't mean being kicked out on his ass for loving Walt Longmire.
Relationships: Branch Connally/Walt Longmire
Series: ramblin' man [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2052243
Comments: 9
Kudos: 10





	always prefer the longshots

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Riding](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2125914) by [Deviant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deviant/pseuds/Deviant). 



> SO I started a rewatch of Longmire recently and I was slammed over the head with Branch and Walt for no reason. I have no idea why this came to be except, possibly, the knowledge that there is only one other fic and that is a crime and my brain likes rare pairings. So, uh, enjoy I suppose?

From the moment Branch Connally staggered into the Wyoming station, Walt had wanted to punch him in the face. 

It always started that way, it seemed, with those long shots. The kind that proved to be a challenge or, more accurately, challenging enough that it led a man to drink. Walt wasn't a man that drank himself to death but he sure as hell wasn't the kind to go down quiet, neither. 

It started with him wanting to punch Branch Connally in the face, sure, but it turned out _he_ didn't need to. 

Given who Branch's daddy was, it wasn't too far-fetched to assume someone in Absaroka County didn't like him. Hell, it was almost a given. But Walt hadn't expected for it to happen on an almost-case, certainly not for it to turn violent, and _definitely_ not that he would have to step in. 

As such, Walter Longmire could have done without the bruised and bloodied knuckles just as much as he could've done without Branch's face looking like raw meat. 

"I had that," he hears, just off to the left of where he's parked his rump against the front bumper of his truck to ice his hand. Walt sighs through his nose but is unsurprised when he turns and sees Branch standing a foot or so away with his hands balled into fists at his sides, righteous anger rolling off him in waves. The look in his eye is angry, sure, but there's something else there too, a bit like a scared little boy. The effect is only worsened by the unusually bare head, the equally as unusual messy hair. 

The aforementioned raw meat-esque look to his face had been minimized somewhat by the cleanup job and the stitches across his cheek and right eyebrow the paramedics had given him, but it isn't gone completely. His face was already starting to swell around the left eye and his lip was fat and split down the middle where that gaudy, godawful ring the man had been wearing had caught him the first few times. 

Walt hums, eyebrows raising toward his hairline as he shifts to cross his ankles, and shakes his head. His eyes fall to something moving behind Branch's left shoulder. The white-draped body was loaded up and hauled away within a minute. Walt barely blinked at it. "Sure yah did." 

_"I had that,"_ Branch insists again, stepping closer, hands still balled up into fists, and Walt realizes he's shaking something fierce, shoulders hiked up toward his ears. The quivering rattled his jacket zipper against the gaudy belt buckle on his Wranglers, a _tappa-tappa-tappa _that was as close as it was annoying. Needless to say: _ **very.**_ __

__"Branch--"_ _

__Snow crunching beneath quick booted feet stopped him from saying anything else. Instead, Walt stood to his feet and squared his shoulders, adrenaline sparking back up in his blood as he faced the source of the noise._ _

__Barlow Connally was striding toward him looking like someone refused to piss on him when he was on fire. But that Connally anger had never frightened Walt, never from Barlow and never from his son._ _

__"Branch what the fuck did I tell you 'bout handlin'--"_ _

__"That's far enough, Barlow. You can keep right there." Walt's tone was even as he spoke, his uninjured hand raised up placatingly, but his stance covered almost all of Branch up from his father. Barlow didn't seem to like that much, teeth barring, eyes bulging, and face going red._ _

__Jabbing a finger toward Walt's chest, Barlow made another aborted step toward them, voice raising to drown the sheriff out. "That's my _son,_ Longmire, you just let me--" _ _

__"I said that's far enough, Barlow. Won't say it again." There was an edge to Walt's voice now, something low and dangerous. "I don't _care_ if Branch is your son, Barlow, but he's my deputy. **Mine.** And you aren't getting anywhere close to him just now, you understand? Best you walk back over to Deputy Moretti to give your statement and go on home." _ _

__Everything stood still then. Walt, Branch behind him, his father in front of him. The emergency personnel meandering around them, all of it. Walt's gaze rests steadily on Barlow's face. Dared the man to come closer, feet angled to push him back if need be._ _

__"Branch, take the keys, left back pocket. Start 'er up." That was an order, too, and he heard his deputy shift uncertainly behind him before stepping forward and shoving his hand down into Walt's back pocket. The sheriff grunts and shifts when the keys are pulled free but his eyes never leave Barlow's face. Not when the truck door opens and shuts nor when the engine turns over and rumbles next to his thigh._ _

___"Now,_ Connally," Walt says, voice hard for a split second, now that Branch wasn't within earshot. That was all it took. Barlow's eyes widened fractionally and he nodded once, sharp and quick, before turning on his heel and making a beeline for Vic, Henry shadowing her at the Red Pony's front door. _ _

__Walt didn't move until he saw Barlow on the other side of the parking lot._ _

__His feet took him automatically to the driver's side and he heard scrabbling in the cab as he hefted himself up a few seconds later into the driver's seat. "Belt, Branch." He didn't need to look over to hear the deputy comply. The click of the seat belt buckle was all the confirmation he needed._ _

__The truck drove off the Pony's lot and turned onto the main street without any other words between the two men, though Walt could sense the unease radiating off his deputy. It only got worse when they turned onto the silent side road that led to Walt Longmire's home._ _

__The truck engine shut off and the cab light with it but neither man moved to get out of the vehicle. For a moment, the only thing illuminating the path up to the house, the land surrounding it, was the faint light from the moon and the fading out of the truck headlights. It was an almost calm, something settled-- _settling_ \--between the pair of them. Then, Walt popped the driver's side door open and hopped down. The moment was lost. _ _

__Branch followed after him, still quiet, but stopped when he was a few feet away from the porch. "Where the hell are your front steps, Walt?"_ _

__A rough chuckle escaped from Walt's chest somewhere off to his left in the dark. "Been meanin' to fix 'em, me and Henry. 'S a work in progress. Watch yer step. Pretty big gap."_ _

__Branch shook his head and mumbled under his breath about Longmires and their inability to fix things. Cady was the same way _(must have learned it from her dad)_ and it was something Branch had found out fairly early on into their friendship, short-lived and awkward relationship, and which continued to drown him in frustration to this very day. _ _

__"I'll help you fix it, Walt," he grunted, hip hitched well past its typical rotation as he hopped up onto the porch flat, "if only so I don't have to get a step ladder to come into your damn house."_ _

__Another huff of laughter, this time closer, and Branch skidded to a halt so he didn't collide with the other man's back. He sighed through his nose, grumbling about installing a goddamn light too before his eyes were violently assaulted by the sudden warmth of an old kitchen as the front door was thrown open._ _

__Stepping through the front door was like lowering every single shield he had simultaneously, shoulders sagging as he toed off his boots by the front door, more out of habit than good manners these days. Something like tiredness hung over his eyes, here, too, and it was with a start that he realized he was not walking to the couch of his own volition but was, instead, being led by a warm, wide hand curled at the back of his neck._ _

__Before he could muster up any form of protest against the sheriff’s manhandling, Branch was shoved (almost gently) down onto the broken-down couch cushions. The entirety of his body went limp, then, staring up at Walt through half-lidded eyes as he watched the man keep moving silently around his own home, looking more like a stern ghost than a flesh and body man should ever have a right to._ _

__He _did_ protest at the hand that gripped his chin, tilting his face back and forth, swiping at him with a loose hand before cursing at something cold being slapped against the left side of his face. That hand automatically gripped for whatever it was, cursing quietly at the feeling that lanced through his swollen eye. _"Goddamnit_ Walt what the hell--" a pause as he lifted the cold pack away from his face, good eye squinting to take a look at the bag. "--Is this a bag of peas? You have _got_ to be kidding me." _ _

__The last was said under his breath but Walt still heard it anyway, laughing as he stepped away again. Branch watched him more closely this time, eyeing everything the other man picked up until he came close again, waiting until he came back from wherever he'd disappeared from to shift back against the cushions, head dropping back onto them._ _

__"What I had on hand," Walt said, voice unapologetic. "Better than letting your face look like raw hamburger tomorrow."_ _

__"My face does _not--"_ _ _

__"Yes, it does. Here." Something warm and soft was dumped into his lap and...when had he grabbed clothes? "Shower's down the hall. Clean all that booze off before yah make my couch smell like a distillery. Don't get your stitches wet."_ _

__Then, Walt was lumbering off again, down the aforementioned hallway, no doubt to change out of his own bloodied uniform. Branch hefted himself upward with a quiet groan, his body suddenly feeling every ache and pain it had sustained an hour ago._ _

__Had it really only been an hour?_ _

__Branch didn't really want to think about it but it wasn't like he could _stop_ himself, anyway, as he stripped out of his clothes, leaving them in a pile on top of the toilet before clambering (carefully) into the shower. The water was cold when he first turned the faucet, but the cold was sobering, even if everything else felt like it was shriveling up and dying. He used a hand to lather up the bar of soap he found and washed himself off in broad strokes, almost on autopilot, thoughts far away. _ _

__They hadn't been at the Red Pony for long. Walt had brought him and Vic along to ask Henry a question about a young Cheyenne runaway they'd found dead just off the Absaroka County line, wanting to know if he knew him, what he could have been doing with a stolen horse and a few hundred thousand dollars in his saddlebags. Henry was helpful, as always, though Branch was almost ashamed to admit he hadn't really been listening to the words._ _

__He'd wandered off from the group of them, thinking he'd seen a familiar face in the crowded bar, someone from high school he hadn't seen in years. It hadn't taken much, Branch reflects as he scrubs at his hair with Walt's shampoo, careful not to get water on his face, to set the guy off. Especially when Branch remembered they hadn't really been friends, after all, and that his daddy had fired Neil's their senior year._ _

__His tongue pokes at the tender spot on his lower cheek from the inside of his mouth, wincing as he remembers being cold-cocked across the face, ashamed to say he hadn't seen it coming and fallen flat on his ass because of it. It hadn't hurt then, not exactly, but it stung now, all the cuts from Neil's daddy's ring and the bruises left by his fists flaring up all at once under the hot shower spray._ _

__He couldn't tell if it was his pride or his face that hurt more, to tell the truth. Certainly couldn't after he'd caught sight of his own father in the crowd that had formed around them while Branch had been forced to the ground._ _

__It had only been a second of eye contact but it had been enough to see every once of disappointment in Barlow's eyes._ _

__Then, there was a hand at the back of Branch's jacket collar and panic had set in, arms and legs flailing as he grabbed at the hand dragging him backward, blood dripping into one eye making it difficult to see as he twisted, tried to dislodge himself. He'd been panicking, Branch now realizes, unable to recognize that it had been Walt dragging him back and out of the way until he saw the sheriff step in front of him, placing himself between Branch and the man that had never learned to let go of his grudges._ _

__Hands buried in his hair, soap suds dripping down his back, Branch admits to himself that he'd been almost relieved at the sight, relieved and pissed off because he _should_ have seen it coming. Because he shouldn't have been laid out on the ground, vulnerable, and in need of Walter fucking Longmire to come to rescue him. _ _

__Shutting the water off with a hard smack to the knob, Branch clambers out of the shower quick enough to bang his shin against the side and banish the thought of whacking one out in another man's shower from his mind. Naked as the day he was born, Branch Connally nearly falls flat on his ass again as he looks up to see Walt leaning in the doorway, an amused smile on his face._ _

__He resists the urge to fish for his hat and place it in front of his waist._ _

__Instead, Branch crosses his arms over his chest and juts out his chin in a challenge. The look is quickly wiped off his face when a towel smacks him in it._ _

__"Forgot to give you one of these. Figured you might want it so yah didn't have to shimmy into your pants soaking wet." Walt's gaze doesn't even flicker as he speaks. Branch is almost disappointed when he turns and walks back the way he'd come._ _

__It's only after he starts toweling off his hair that he realizes that Walt had been dressed as casual as he'd ever seen him, an old white shirt and another pair of sweats clinging to his hips._ _

__Branch did not, as it were, swallow his own tongue, but it was a near thing. It was all a bit too much, really, when he was this tired, this sore, to ignore the fact that he thought his boss was hot and that's why things hadn't worked out with Walt's daughter. Not to mention he'd showered in Walt's shower, used his goddamn _shampoo,_ and was wearing his clothes. _ _

__It was like the man was _trying_ to kill him. _ _

__Even if Walt didn't know it._ _

__Scrubbing a hand down his face, wincing at the pressure against his still-tender face, Branch quickly shrugged on the shirt that was a little bit too big and the sweatpants that were a few inches too long, hanging low on his hips because they were a few inches _too wide_ and only fit slung low across his hip bones. He breathed through his nose to calm himself the fuck down, otherwise, he would make a fool of himself the moment he walked out of this goddamned bathroom. _ _

__He'd carried a torch for Walt Longmire for years. At first, Branch had thought it was just something like hero worship, _admiration,_ but the first time he'd had a wet dream about the man had obliterated it all to shit. Branch had been ashamed to shrug on his uniform that day, could barely look Walt in the eye, and had overcompensated ever since by being an ass. _ _

__That'd been part of his running for sheriff, too. He realizes that now. Thinking that if he could _replace_ Walt he wouldn't want to _be_ with Walt. He'd lost, Cady had gotten hurt, and it hadn't worked._ _

__It only made things worse._ _

__Branch sighs before gathering his armful of clothing back up in a ball, intending to leave it in the washroom, when he realized he didn't know where that was. The cabin wasn't that big, really, Branch could probably find it easily enough, but he didn't like the thought of snooping around the other man's house. It didn't sit right. So, instead, his bare feet carried him back the way he'd come, creaky old floors alerting the sheriff of his presence before he'd even come around the corner._ _

__Branch dropped the clothes off in a little pile on top of his boots, mumbling something about taking care of it tomorrow, before levering himself down into the corner of the couch, knees curled into his chest as he slung one arm around them, the other pillowing beneath his cheek and chin on the couch arm as he tilted it to watch the other man in his kitchen for a few minutes, curious to know what the other man was doing._ _

__Seemed like he was fixing a cup of...coffee?_ _

____

***

Even though his eyes were closed and he was impossibly tired, he still responded to the hand that nudged his shoulder however many minutes later Branch drew his legs in tighter to his body, face screwing up as he shoved it under his arm, and tried to make more room for Walt than was already there. He could hear a faint chuckle coming from somewhere above him but, otherwise, the man said nothing.

His eyes flew open when a hand hooked behind his knees and another curled around his back, suddenly wide awake, heart racing, as he was lifted up into the air in a smooth movement. Branch almost wanted to wiggle away, say that he wasn't a damn kid, that he could do it himself, that he didn't want Walt hurting himself _carrying_ his ass, but the part of himself that was tired and sore and needed the physicality of Walt's hands on his body, _carrying him,_ won out in the end. 

Branch forced his shoulders to lay flat again, pressed back into Walt's chest. His head, from what he could tell, was hanging out in the open air, neck curling inward so he didn't have a crick in it come tomorrow. He grumbled something unintelligible and shifted, upper body turning so he could press his face into Walt's chest, hoping the other man would believe he was just asleep. 

The next few minutes blurred a bit in the wake of Branch's tiredness, but it was enveloped by something soft and warm, and a rough hand skimmed down the top of his hair and down his spine as his breathing evened out and he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

***

The ringing of a telephone in the depths of a house woke Branch with a start, body lurching as it reacted to the noise before his brain was fully online again. The sound cut off a few moments later, replaced by a deep voice that was, in his half-awake state, vaguely familiar. The data that filtered into his brain, a sluggish reel of _not his phone, not his clothes, not his bed_ made Branch screw his face up in confusion, a hand coming up to scrub at an eye only to wince in pain as he pressed a palm into still-tender flesh.

The rest of his aching pains trickled in over the next minute or so, forcing a groan from Branch's chest as he shifted to set his feet down on the floor. The side of the bed next to him was cold but not unrumpled, pillows propped up against the headboard, and it only made things that much more confusing. 

Creaky steps once more alerted his presence before he had fully come into the living room, a hand scrubbing through his hair as his eyes roamed across the wood-paneled walls, trying to piece things together. Walt Longmire stood at the kitchen counter, coffee cup halfway into the sink and phone cradled between his cheek and shoulder, half shrugged into his jacket. Walt turned at the sound of the floorboards, lips curling into a half-smile before signing off on his phone call. 

"That was Ruby. Wants us to go down to the doc's and get you checked out again." He held up a hand to forestall any complaints. "Said she wants you fighting fit and that if I gotta toss you over my shoulder tah do it, it's my prerogative." 

Branch swallowed thickly and nodded, running a hand through his hair. He was not awake enough for this shit. 

"Go put your shoes on. We can swing by your place and grab you some clothes. Don't think you really wanna show up dressed in my old pajamas. People might talk," Walt joked, mirth clear on his face now that it wasn't swallowed up by the dark of a quiet house. 

Branch had to bite back a retort at that, a _let them talk_ just hanging off the tip, bit his tongue so hard he was almost certain he had drawn blood. He barely managed to roll his eyes and puff out a snort before making a beeline for the coffee pot. "Can't a man get some coffee first before you kick him out?" The smile that curved around his mouth was right there, out in the open, and he didn't quite manage to hide it when Walt turned to grab a mug from the cabinets for him. 

_"One cup,_ then we gotta be on our way. Your clothes are folded by the door where you left 'em last night. How's yer head feelin'?" 

The topic change was a bit jarring but Branch shrugged, brow furrowing slightly as he grabbed the pot and poured some of the dark brew into his mug. "Face hurts a bit, mouth hurts, too, but vision's fine. 'M not dizzy, only a slight headache. That why you stayed in the room last night?" 

Branch sipped at his coffee--black, two sugars--with a raised eyebrow. Two could play at this game; if Walt was going to ask leading questions, he had some of his own. 

"Mmhmm. Didn't wanna come in to find you keeled over 'cause your thick head didn't block those punches to your face well enough." The noise of offense Branch made at that must have been amusing because he was rewarded with a rare smile from Walt Longmire. Branch thought about everything and anything else he could to tamp down the pleased feeling welling up in his chest. 

"Now, follow my finger," Walt rumbled, holding up a hand, and Branch glared at him from over the top of his mug but did as he was told. His vision swam a bit around the edges but Branch chalked that up to tiredness more than anything else. He took a sip of his coffee when he was done, settling into the corner of the counter with a smug smirk, as though to say _'happy now?'_

Sometimes, he still listened to Walt. Even when they didn't see eye to eye on things, he still listened. 

Walt hummed to himself for a second, ducking his head to look at the swelling on his eye, thankfully gone down enough where he could see out of it this morning. A hand twitched at his side, as though he was going to reach forward but thought better of it before he straightened and nodded to himself. "Finish up, get your shoes. I'll wait for you in the truck." Then, he turned on his heel, finished shrugging into his jacket, put his hat on his head, and walked out the door. 

Branch sucked in a breath after the door slammed closed, head tipping back to look up at the ceiling, eyes falling shut. The tea box that sat on the shelf loomed over his shoulder, not malevolent but still something that lingered like a bad taste in Branch's mouth. Everyone knew where Martha was in this house, and it was a stark reminder of the things Walt had lost, what he probably wouldn't want again. The silence was almost stifling but when he walked out the door a few minutes later, mug dry and set back in the cabinet, his shoulders sat straight as an arrow. 

The tea box watched on in approval, silent and motherly, as the first rays of morning light touched its lid to gold.

***

Branch was getting real tired of people staring at his face.

This was the third cowboy to do it, each of them cracking worse jokes. They'd all heard about Neil and Walt dragging Branch away from a fight he should have been able to finish. _Could_ have finished if he'd been paying attention, if he hadn't gone in there with a dopey smile and the feeling that bygones were bygones, forgetting that being the son of Barlow Connally came with more baggage some days than it was worth. 

To say that it was getting old was an understatement. 

After being cleared for duty, he and Walt had been called out to the rodeo circuit to take the statements of the bronc riders who'd found one of their own out to pasture and cut to bits, thinking it might have had something to do with their boy. Of course, it also meant that Branch knew nearly every man walking around that day and, _of course,_ each and every one of them said something about his face. 

After the tenth, his jaw was clenched so tight he was surprised his teeth hadn't cracked. 

"You're gonna break something if you keep that up, Branch." If it were possible, Branch's jaw clenched tighter before he forcibly relaxed, shoulders coming to lay flat before he turned to look at the sheriff walking beside him. "They're just trying to get you to do something. We both know that." Walt looked back at him, tipped his hat at someone walking past on Branch's other side, "Don't give 'em the satisfaction." 

"But it'd be satisfyin' for _me,_ Walt, seein' 'em knocked flat on their asses," Branch said through smiling teeth. "'Sides don't you know us bronc riders can get it done in eight seconds? Ain't even a fair fight," 

He felt like he was about ten feet tall when he heard a quiet laugh escape from the man beside him. 

Another cowboy walked past them and pitched Branch sideways with his shoulder, then, and the deputy bared his teeth when he gathered the man's shirt up at the back and dragged him closer to Walt, who collared him like an unruly puppy he'd grabbed by the scruff. His hands itched for a fight, itched to prove he was capable but one look from Walt and his grip was loosening before he stepped away. 

The cowboy saw and smiled, wide and stupid. Branch almost punched him in the face for that alone, his anger simmering just beneath the surface. 

"What? You gotta let daddy fight all your battles for you, Connally," the man spits, trying to get out of the hold the sheriff had on his shirt. It was a piss poor attempt if Branch had ever seen one; Walt's grip didn't let up and, in fact, the comment only made it worse. 

Branch's brain restarted a second after and he cleared his throat, pointing at Walt as he moved closer, ducked his head with a sardonic laugh. "That look like Barlow to you? 'Cause I sure don't see the resemblance. My daddy ain't never fought for me a day in his life. He wouldn't start now." 

"Nah, word around the circuit is that anyone fucks with you now they gotta deal with the good sheriff here. _Daddy Longmire--"_ the rider paused, nodding his head at Walt best he could and said, "--beggin' your pardon, sheriff. S'pose you hadn't heard this afore. But **we** all know."

Branch wanted to wring this man's neck or, better yet, shove him into the path of one of those horses he rode. He sucked in a deep breath and let it out, forcing himself to calm down. A sense of...shame, or something like it, had welled up from the depths of his belly to choke him, and Branch hoped to Christ his face wasn't red. It felt like it was. The cowboy smirking at him _told him_ it was. 

He was thankful when Walt ignored it.

"You know where we can find Neil's sponsor? Gotta tell 'em their man ain't competing today on account of his being dead." 

Branch smiled to himself when the cowboy's face blanched. His tune changed soon enough after that they had nearly everything they needed to know about said sponsors before they'd even stepped a toe near them. 

Maybe today was going to be a good one after all.

***

The sponsors were less than helpful but at least they didn't treat Branch like he was some damsel in distress. In fact, they'd even asked him to take Neil's place in the rodeo that afternoon, an offer he had _generously_ declined on account of if he was harmed it would pull him out of an already short-staffed sheriff's department. Still, that familiar old hunger to ride must have shone through because the look Walt had given him was almost considering when they walked away like he was almost going to give him permission for one last ride.

And that was where this whole mess had started to begin with. Branch was a man grown. He didn't _need_ Walt Longmire's permission to do anything, as long as it was off the job, but he _wanted_ it. 

And that want felt more like damnation than anything else. 

Left him a bit hot under the collar, too, if he was being honest. Which became a problem when you were confined to the same truck cab as the man. Their next stop was to pick his own up from the Red Pony.

Branch's fingers drummed against his knee where it was propped against the other. He cleared his throat and, looking straight out the window, said, "'m sorry about all of that, back there. What he said. He was probably just angry but--" 

He stopped talking, unsure of how to finish that sentence

Walt, bless him, just shrugged a shoulder. "It doesn't bother me any, Branch. I've been called worse by better people." Branch released the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and relaxed back into the seat, nearly boneless in his relief. He saw Walt watching him for a moment but said nothing. The moment stretched far longer than it should have before Walt broke the silence again, as uncharacteristic as it was surprising. "Did you really think I'd be mad about something like that?"

Branch didn't know how to answer that. Instead, he shrugged back, face turned toward the window, and prayed for a black hole to come swallow him up. 

"You know, it wasn't so bad, all things considering if _that's_ what they call me for protecting my people."

"'S a bit... _weird_ though, isn't it? Saying you're my old man, I mean. You're nothing like him." No, he refuses to admit there was something bitter in those words. "I mean you saw what he did last night. Or well--" He laughed, scratched at the back of his head, "--what he didn't do. Instead of coming to check if I was alright he--he _berated me_ like I'd gotten into some fight in the goddamn schoolyard. Didn't even care what'd--" 

Branch cut himself off realizing he was breathing heavy and that the truck had pulled over to the side of the road. He was almost afraid to look at the other man, he was shaking so bad, just like he had the night before. 

"No. He didn't. But I did. So that should count for something. And I know Vic and Ferg would have, too, if Vic hadn't been yelling at everyone else and Ferg hadn't been at the station. Hell, even _Cady,_ for all the messages I had on my phone asking about what happened to you." Branch cringed a bit at that, knowing he was probably awaiting an earful when he got back to his phone. He'd left it at Walt's. 

"I'm sure she did. I, uh, I'm not surprised. You Longmires all seem to be cut from the same cloth." A hand ran through his hair and down his face, nose wrinkling when his fingers caught on the stubble he hadn't had a chance to shave off this morning. "Left my phone at your place though. Figure it's probably dead by now so there's no point in going to get it just yet. I'll face my judgment soon enough." 

Walt shook his head but he seemed more amused than anything. 

Then, he did something that nearly stopped Branch's heart. 

The hand was heavy, warm, and solid where it landed on his knee, fingers squeezing before staying there to rest awhile, figuring it was as nice a place as any to stop for a bit. Branch was going to have a heart attack. And, Christ, it would just be so _easy_ to crawl across the dead space in the cab, toss himself over Walt's lap like he didn't have a care in the goddamn world. Like Walt wasn't the one who signs his paychecks and could throw him out on his ass for even _thinking_ about it. 

Walt was talking again, Branch could hear it through the blood pounding in his ears, but he couldn't make himself respond, couldn't make himself _listen._ The only thing he knew was that hand just at the top of his knee, fingertips digging into the sides, thumb pressing some random pattern into the fabric of a crease like Walt didn't even know he was doing it. 

Branch sucked in a shaking breath and let it out, a pretense to get himself to stop shaking. Or, he hoped that's what it looked like. He was almost afraid to look at the other man right now. Almost afraid that he would do something monumentally stupid if he did. 

He looked anyway. 

Walt's face was screwed up into a lopsided grin, amusement clear on his face. He knew Branch hadn't been listening, then. _Damn him._ He should have said something about Cady or Ferg or Vic, then, thanked them for their concern when he probably wouldn't be as obvious about it otherwise. 

Instead, he opened his mouth and what came out was: "thank you...for...for caring. I--" _I care about you, too, enough to put a bullet in someone's head for you._

He couldn't finish that sentence. So, he grinned back, grimacing when it pulled a bit at his lip and he set a hand to the split with a grimace and slumped down into the seat. "That ever gonna get better," he groused, hand fishing blindly for a napkin in the glove box. Walt leaned forward and grabbed one for him, nudging him with his knuckles to get his attention. 

"It'll take a few days to heal. Depends on how often you keep splittin' it though. Maybe don't go kissing people's rings anymore?" And just like that, the mood was far less tense and Branch let out a bark of laughter and shook his head as he dabbed at his mouth. 

Spots of red came up again and again on the white, but they soon faded from bright red to rust-brown before disappearing entirely. "Yeah, well--" Branch started, balling the tissue up in his hand and draping it across the middle seat, checking Walt's blind spot automatically as he put the car in drive and pulled back onto the road. "--Tell 'em that it ain't my fault my daddy's a bastard. I didn't have anything to do with Neil's getting laid off, but I guess he figured I was there." 

Not that Barlow _wasn't,_ but it probably didn't look as good beating on an old man, even if he might have deserved it. 

"Dunno what could have made him _die,_ though. Wasn't like you hurt him. Guy should have been able to take a few punches if he was gonna beat on someone else." 

"That's what we have Doc Bloomfield for." 

Branch hummed in acknowledgment, head tipping back against the headrest as he shifted around trying to get comfortable again. His face still throbbed a bit though he didn't want to admit it. He knew if he did that Walt might make him take days off and he...would rather avoid that. 

If there was one thing Branch had learned over the years it was that he couldn't sit idle for long. If he wasn't working, he was outside. If he wasn't outside, he was working. It was a vicious cycle, and an unfortunate one, but one that happened, nevertheless, without fail. His mind couldn't stop and sometimes he didn't know if it could. 

"Ruby say if he sent over an autopsy report to the station yet?" 

Branch's head lolled to the side just enough to watch as Walt shook his head in the negative, gaze focused on the road as they pulled over on the road across from the station. 

"No, but I figured it'll be in a few hours. Doc made it seem like it was a slow day when I spoke to him this morning. He called just before Ruby did. You were still asleep."

The truck doors slammed, the sound of boots crunching against asphalt loud on the otherwise quiet street, and Branch's heart thundering in his chest at what Walt had just said. Branch caught a piece of trash beneath his boot heel and stooped to pick it up, swaying as he straightened up. 

Walt's hand steadied him at his shoulder, brow crinkled in concern, but Branch just gave him a small smile before stepping toward the trashcan and throwing the litter away. "Head hurts a bit. 'S alright. But I might wanna grab my phone sooner than later." 

"Sure. Wait down here while I run up to grab a bit of stuff Ferg grabbed for us. I'll let 'em know you're taking the day--" He ignored the sigh from Branch, merely raised a brow before continuing, "--and that I'll be working from home, keep an eye on you." 

Well. That was certainly better than staying home by himself. 

Branch nodded his head once before leaning up against the wall beside the station door, hands shoved in his jean pockets. Walt disappeared and Branch entertained himself by counting the number of people who walked by wearing an outlandish t-shirt and cowboy hat combination. He'd tallied it up to twenty-five by the time Walt came back, trailing behind him back to the truck.

Trying to keep his eyes on the road, Branch had to refrain from grabbing the files that sat between them and thumbing through them. He sat on his hands, instead, tucking them under his knees, and leaned his head against the window. "Those on Neil?" 

"Nope. Our Cheyenne runaway. Social workers sent it over. Apparently, he had a habit of running off, but he usually went back to the Rez. Wanted to be with his parents."

That sounded suspiciously like the case they'd had a few years back, truth be told when Cheyenne kids were being taken from their families just to be given to families so the homes and social workers could get a little extra cash to pad their paycheck. Branch hoped it wasn't happening again. The thought must have stuck on his face, too, because Walt shook his head, fingers drumming against the steering wheel, responding as he turned down the side road that led back to the Longmire property. 

The sights out here were breathtaking, one of the prettiest in all of Wyoming, but maybe Branch was just biased. 

"This one checks out. Various reports against the dad said he's a drinker. Always say he goes back for his little sister, but she supposedly hadn't seen him, either. But we can talk about it later. You're not supposed to be working. Sheriff's orders." 

Branch should have raised a fuss about it but he was still tired, his face still hurt, and he kind of just wanted to sink into Walt's couch and never get up again. So, he said nothing, just shot a half-hearted glare the other man's way and pressed his face more fully into the window.

Eventually, the truck stopped and Branch roused himself from his slouch against the door and hopped out, snorting derisively at the step-less front porch like he had the night before and stepped into the house with a new perspective shone in gold light and dust motes. His boots came off on autopilot, jacket and hat hung politely over a chair back at the kitchen table. His gun belt, radio, and cuffs placed neatly on the same chair before Branch sunk down into the corner of the couch he'd occupied the previous evening, good check pressed into his forearm as he watched Walt move around in the small space, smiling gratefully when he noticed the man plugging his phone in on the kitchen counter. 

Unlike the night before, Walt sat beside him a few minutes later, a heavy blanket was thrown casually across Branch's flank with his free hand while he thumbed through the file folder with the other. 

Walt started talking, then, in that low, steady voice of his. Branch responded for a while, answering as best he could, but the blanket and the body heat lulled him into a doze quickly enough that he didn't remember closing his eyes.

***

Branch realized he'd shifted around in his sleep only when his eyes next opened and he saw not the wood paneling of a cabin wall framed by a couch arm but the worm fabric of denim, an old blanket, and the side of an arm draped carefully across his back. Vision still fuzzy, only half awake, Branch scrunched up his nose and buried his face into the leg beneath him before remembering where he was and what he'd just done.

He sat up so fast his head spun, blanket clutched in the hand that wasn't prickling with pins and needles. 

_"Shit,_ Walt I'm--" 

"It's fine, Branch. You were comfortable. Didn't wanna disturb you." A hand flicked a page over in a file, eyes sliding away from the paper to stare at the other man for a moment. "Head feeling any better?" Branch nodded, struck dumb, and shifted so his back was pressed into the couch arm, chin resting on his knees as he tucked them into his chest. It wasn't necessarily easy to do in jeans, but he hadn't exactly asked for a pair of sweats to change into when he'd walked through the front door. 

Walt nodded back, as though that were an acceptable answer, and stood. A small groan was released as a series of pops radiated up and down his spine before Walt retrieved the coffee cup that had been set on the side table. Branch's eyes tracked the movement, couldn't help himself before he wiggled into a more comfortable position with a sigh. 

He was still exhausted. Everything ached and he just wanted to close his eyes again, but he knew the embarrassment would keep him sitting straight as an arrow until Walt came and claimed a spot on the couch again. 

It wasn't a long wait. 

"Ferg called. They got a few more leads. We can run down one of them tomorrow if you're feeling up to it." 

Branch nodded once, eyes already half-lidded at the sound of his voice, and Walt continued, the sound of it fading into the background as Branch slid down the couch again, the soles of sock-clad feet pressing into Walt's thigh. Words stopped coming, then, and Branch couldn't understand why, brow furrowing at the absence, and he heard a distant laugh at the action. It was warm, here, and safe, and he was more comfortable than he ever was in his own home; it was too sterile, too quiet, too _lonely,_ but here it was anything but. 

In the morning, he wouldn't wonder how he'd ended up in Walt's bed again, just give him a half-hearted grumble to cover his embarrassment as he was handed a coffee mug. In the morning, he wouldn't remember taking off his uniform shirt but would be thankful it was laundered, regardless. His jeans were still on but the belt had been removed and draped over the same chair that held his equipment and hat. He'd give Walt a little smile, lip split a little bit less, and it would be returned, something settling in the air around them, wordless but significant, as they looked over the file notes at the kitchen counter, steam warming their faces.

The tea box sat on the shelf in the kitchen, watching over it all, and, this time, Branch didn't feel guilty. This time, he felt at home.


End file.
